society

324: A quiet thump of faith

| Aspergers Girls

Something very interesting is happening: Every time I share something spiritual I feel as if I need to turn around and share something more Asperger-y or logical.

I am afraid to ostracize or hurt someone based on my own spiritual beliefs.

And I am afraid to offend.

I have reached a place, as of late, (a very recent as of late), in wherein I am less and less inclined to want to explain or justify my actions; not because I am angry or righteous, or think I have all the answers, but simply because I have gained a greater acceptance of self and my path.

Still, there remains a definite part of self that wishes to compile a list of reasons why I am spiritual and why I choose to share my spirituality.

It doesn’t feel ego-based, this need to explain, but more spirit-based, like a deeper region wanting to pour out.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I don’t want my writings here (on this blog) to turn into a means of spiritual prophecy and discussion, while at the same time I do not want to deny any parts of emerging self.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I know there is a sector of the world that still doubts there is a source or higher-self, and that when one mentions such a truth (individualized truth as it be), that walls and barriers are immediately shot up.

My intention is not to inject religious banter or rhetoric into anyone, but to express a part of my self, or soul, as you will. My intention is not to ever push my beliefs on anyone, as I know the harm this type of action can cause, and the hypocrisy involving aspects of judgment that occurs.

I am, for the most part, not a judgmental person, and thusly, I think it is improbable I could ever be a Thumper for Jesus; but quite frankly, I think that Jesus never meant for souls to be reached through blatant and oppressive means, and that He himself would be saddened and ill-stricken by the greed and want that oozes out of those that once call themselves “ordained by God.”

Of course, when it comes to certain topics, say: religion, politics, and life-philosophy, and heck, even autism, some people become adamantly vigilant and judgmental.

I think this is where there is a definite barrier between how I think and view life, and how others think and view life. Well, at least mainstream others.

For instance, I can be watching a show where terrible abuse or violence is happening, and even though I feel empathy for the victim, I do not feel judgment towards the persecutor.

I have tried. I cannot.

And it’s not that I haven’t been a victim of others’ hands myself. If I feel anything at all towards the one deemed the “wrong doer,” whether in fictional television or my own real life, it is a strong compassion for the “wrong doer” and state of affairs in his or her life that lead to this person to do said acts.

Of course, I recognize injustice and cruelty, and will make a stand in the best way I can to protect those in harm. In fact, cruelty is the reason I don’t eat meat. However, in finding the exact place to point the finger at the wrong doer is where I stray.

Take the meat industry for instance. Do I blame the breeder, the butcher, the grocery store, the restaurant, the consumer? Who is more to blame or less to blame? And how do I draw the line or hold the scale? And whose job is it to judge and determine the degree of right or wrong? For I certainly don’t think it’s mine.

This can get me into trouble sometimes, even in my marriage. Just tonight we were watching a show that depicted a country that still treats women as subordinates. My husband voiced his opinion. I could not concur. I explained that I don’t feel judgment, at least not the adamant-I-am-right type of judgment. I see too many variables, too many strings leading to other strings of theory and plausible cause. I see all the suffering in the world, in our own community and country, and I think: How do I even begin to choose which suffering is to a greater or lesser degree

And I think: How can one be blamed for something that he is taught since birth? Or another blamed for a deficit of mind or strangling of spirit?

Again, this isn’t to say I am heartless; I feel deeply for the suffering of all, and wish to lift this pain, and take it upon myself to make a difference in a way that feels natural to me. And it isn’t to say I don’t see the necessity of some having a burning, hot passion for change, for without such temperaments, change would be slow to come, if at all. I am saying I don’t have this in me, whatever this THIS be.

Whether I am right or wrong in my making, I stake no claims. But I know I am built for passive resistance of harmful intention and built to embrace and spread love. I am not built to hate.

To me life is a question without complete answers; and I have found that piling partial answers upon partial answers buries the soul. For me it is easier to give in and give up my quest to the hands of my higher power, than to search for a semblance of justice through the inevitable persecution of some.

In regards to my spirituality, my faith is my rock.

Within my faith, I know I am divine energy.

Through my faith I have been able to remedy much of my past insecurities, and likewise render myself valuable and worthy.

I cannot help but to love myself, for I am the very vessel that love pours through.

This is not to say I love the substance of me, or to indicate a prideful relationship with ego; this is merely to say I love the vessel I be; the holder of the cup, He is someone other than self, as is the substance. So it is not that I love the whole of me, but that I love the part endowed by my maker to be held and poured through.

This has brought me great peace, this acceptance of a part of self touched by divine, for I have suffered with bouts of pride over self, and have begged repeatedly for mercy and relief of self.

Once I determined I wasn’t self-incarnate, but indeed vessel for a higher-purpose, I was able to accept a part of me with adoration, while retaining what I think to be a semblance of humility. Thusly to me, my faith is my slayer of pride, at least the part of pride I am able to release and no longer hold onto.

In addition my faith, explains to me, at least to a vast part of self, that who I am is okay and what is happening is okay.

I believe things happen as they are meant to be. This does not meant if an infant is sick and passes away that I stand and proclaim that all is meant to be, for there is still a degree of suffering that occurs that feels unjust and painfully cruel. Life can be cruel, just as life can be powerfully divine.

But I do agree with the Eastern ancient messages found in the proverbs and folk tales that explain that nothing can be deemed beneficial or bad, because with the passing of time all perceptions of events change.

I am a cup half-full kind of gal; always have been, always will be. There is no way around this. And this, too, to a lesser degree, is why I seek out a higher purpose. For there has to be a higher purpose to substantiate all the suffering in the world, or I simply could not exist one more moment.

I believe, too, in miracles.

I hold onto miracles, like I hold onto destiny, and in turn hold onto faith. I have these three as not my crutches, but my strongholds: the sails that never fade and never tear and move me through the sea of my days.

So where I would like to have my writings, at times, not describe the elements of my faith and belief systems, I think with my extreme, say “pathological,” honesty, that this absence of an aspect of me would be an impossibility.

However, I repeat, I would rather no one think I am trying to push my belief systems onto him or her, as I know the harm and drudgery that such self-serving and righteous indoctrination can hinder.

Yes, I hold Jesus in my heart, but my heart is big and there is room for a lot more company. My Jesus likes company. He likes compassionate souls of all race and creed.

It is mankind that put Jesus asunder and twisted His truth through profiteering, slander, misconduct, greed, and mistranslation of His word. I know this with every bone in my body, and often become disheartened that I live in a time where man has the means to turn the very representation and embodiment of forgiveness and sacrifice into sin, or at least the common understanding of “sin,” as even this word at root has not been accurately transcribed and translated.

And so it is, I share a piece, though a small piece it be, of my thoughts. Not so much to help the reader, but to dispel some my own whispers of mind, the old whispers from long ago, reminding me to be careful and to watch where I step, as the wolves are about. The whispers that would rather me hush than rush to share my truth.

For you see, it isn’t really that I have a choice. I have never had a choice but to be me. The only main difference now is that if and when the whispers resurface I know and recognize that I have a legion of angels at my side.

312: Aspergers: I Do Not Lack Any Type of Empathy

| Aspergers Girls

Recently there has been talk of people on the autistic spectrum lacking a form of empathy: Cognitive Empathy. Before that there was talk of people with Autism or Aspergers lacking empathy in general.

Lacking in cognitive empathy implies a person cannot read between the lines of communication. While this might be a true experience with some people on the spectrum, and this theory might help some in their journey to self-discovery and understanding, and even in connecting to others, I do not believe I lack any type of empathy of any sort.

I am not lacking. I am not lacking in anything. In my world the word lacking does not exist. In my world lack is a manifestation of judgment, for I cannot lack without being compared to a norm or a standard. I cannot lack anything without being diminished in my worth and character.

I adamantly claim I do not lack anything, and neither do you.

This world longs to classify and compartmentalize. Yet, I know I am mystery beyond classification. In this knowing I have seen what divides us, the one from the other.

At the base of all division is fear.

I recognize that in claiming my true self and having no secrets that my own actions diminish fear.

It is not as if I have a choice whether or not to be me or not to be me. Because I do not understand how to be anyone other than my whole self. I do not understand how to hide.

As hard as I try to play games, I cannot. I do not judge others for the games they play, but they judge me for not understanding their games.

Perhaps if I am lacking it is in the ability to partake in imaginary games based and founded on fear.

I want to be. I want to just be. But there is something about most of the world that always fears I am hiding something and speaking something that is not real.

They mistake me for a pawn in their own game, while at the same time claiming I know not how to play. I am both singled out and blamed without even stepping foot inside this imaginary arena.

I am simply an observer. I observe the rules and social customs of this world, most, if not all, seemingly built to hide a part of self. I observe the whispers that speak: If you are you in completion then you shall be hurt.

I am an observer that knows the risks. And despite the claims of experts, I have learned to read between the lines. I have learned to read between the lines of pretending and falsehoods and lies and manipulations. I have learned that one word is replaced for another based on fear of judgment or fear of hurting or fear of exposing. I have learned that we are sometimes so afraid of being hurt or hurting another that human communication circulates around the core of fear.

It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is the fact that the lines are so complex and endless and twisted in a way that makes no feasible sense. It is that I get lost in the invisible lines drawn for invisible reasons.

For I speak truth. Or at least I try my best to speak from my place of truth. And if I do not, I examine in detail why I have not. There is some part of me that seems the opposite of many, wherein where others are trying desperately to hide, I am trying desperately to be seen.

For there is a falseness to this world, wherein we are taught that to show all of our cards is to be exposed and made vulnerable to the vultures. And, yes, to a degree this is true, if one believes the vultures exist. But I, as one who has stood in front of thousands naked, know that beyond the vultures circling, are the masses of bright lights that recognize their own self in truth; and that when the vultures come, even as they pluck and pierce and tear apart, they are only my own fears manifesting, teaching, and then vanishing.

With these vultures I am taught self-refinement and further returned to wholeness. With these vultures I am giving opportunity to be more of whom I was born to be.

But if one does not stand in wholeness and in truth, the vultures will not come, at least not as frequently. And if the vultures do not come then how is one refined? And if one’s soul purpose is not for that of refinement, then why are they here? These are the thoughts that circle about me.

Not that I judge the others’ way of being, only that I am filled with wonderment and awe of how one lives without striving for betterment.

I have discovered that the only way to conquer the fear inside of me is to face the fear inside of me.

As an observer, I have found many a contradiction in the ways of communication.

I have found that the more I am myself that the more I am attacked for being so. Yet it is society itself that teaches me to embrace myself. Only there exists this underlying message: Be yourself, so to speak, but don’t make me uncomfortable in your being. Be yourself, but make yourself squeeze into my guidelines.

These are the readings I find in between the lines: Be, but not in totality.

It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is that I do not understand these lines that have been drawn, and why they have been drawn. I do not understand why there are so many rules. I do not understand why others do not speak from their deepest self, but instead choose to remain hidden and only share with a select chosen few. I do not understand what everyone is hiding from?

As observer I see that many try to cover up intention, but it is always there. And I see that many try to garb things in half-truths. They cover up their own self in false disguise. But I see truth, for I am an observer of truth.

I see through the masks and self-imposed walls. I see straight through.

Perhaps in my lacking, or inability, to partake in games, I have gained the perspective of seeing behind the illusions. Perhaps because I see beyond the illusion, I cannot partake in a game of nonexistence. Perhaps the very lines others claim to exist, the very lines they claim I cannot see, are not really there at all. Perhaps others are lacking the ability to see the illusion.

I do not understand whom or what so many are seeking protection from, other than self.

The masses make the standards for this world, proclaim the norm, and proclaim what is right. The masses proclaim I am wrong, or at minimum somehow not entirely right.

But I proclaim I am the light and the truth. I am myself in completeness.

And still this fear of my raw nakedness.

I am honest.
I carry no manipulation.
I have no want to take.
I have no intention to harm.
I continually release anger and judgment.
I mean no ill-will.
I have no need to prove my worth.
I have no need to be right.
I recognize my humanness.
I recognize my frailties.
I denounce weakness in spirit.
I pray for humility.
I pray to recognize self in others.
I state my own need for love and connection.
I forgive.
And I forgive again.
I cry on the outside.
And I love unconditionally.

In this way there is nothing I have to hide.

So I question when one is hiding. I question what is it he or she is afraid I might see?

Perhaps it is the very essence of me being real that spurs fear in another and makes him scream lacking.

For what am I lacking beyond my incapacity to be none other than self?

What if words were lost? What if we only heard thoughts? What then would we hide? Perhaps some of us are the link from here to there, from a place of hidden fear to place of unspoken truth.

Perhaps we lack nothing at all but instead carry an unyielding desire to connect. Perhaps, we, the observers of the game, are the ones sent to stop the game.

What if my way is the way of not lacking?

What if others are lacking to see me?

Perhaps I am lacking the coat of visibility, because I stand so real. Perhaps I am lacking in form and shape, because I appear so unknown.

Perhaps in accepting me in completion, others can accept a part of self. Perhaps some of us are merely mirrors to the awakening soul, sent here with our message of pureness. Sent here to remind others that in truth there exists no lacking and exists no fear.

310: I Ran from the Bully

| Aspergers Girls

Last time I checked I received something like 2,000 comments; but don’t quote me on that, as I’m not certain, and don’t know where to look to find the answer.

And I think that sums up what happened to me with this blog: I didn’t know where to look to find the answers.

Basically, I don’t know how to respond to people who come across as defensive, mean, and pointing blame. I take the comments so seriously that I change my entire self. Case in point, as I mentioned I have received over 2,000 plus comments on this blog, and I have answered almost all of them. In doing so, I have been able to make contact with many beautiful open-minded and loving people. And guess what, besides the teenager that was “trolling” and harassing me at the beginning of my blogging time, an action that really freaked me out, I have only had three what I would call “negative” or “non-supportive” comments.

But that’s all it took: a few comments to cause a rippling effect. I did the math. There were mainly two comments that pierced me—Two out of 2,000—0.1 %. It took 0.1% for me to throw out in my mind all of the positive of my truth and absorb the negative.

I received the comments two days ago, and I ran, and I ran fast.

I then internalized the people’s words. Took it all in, though poison it seemed.

With the internalizing, I altered myself. In a way, I cut myself open for analysis, not a fun feeling, and then, in an attempt to mend my inherent “flaws,” I rearranged me, and attempted to sew myself back together.

All because of two comments. But mainly one. I was told by someone that I was a bully and ego-centered, and that everything was about me. That overall, in summary, I was so self-focused that I didn’t even know how to validate someone else’s hurt or to own my own actions.

This is so far from the truth of who I am that I don’t understand why I would even accept this as even a glimmer of truism. But I know the words against me carried the haunting echos of what I was told as a child.

Regardless, I ran.

A day before this comment, I asked God for a sign. I’d prayed deeply for humility, for release of control, for release of want; and thought that the recent negativity was His way of showing me to stop blogging, to stop exposing myself. I thought He was hinting that I was too sensitive and not cut out for this task at hand. I believed I was indirectly self-punishing and hurting myself.

In retrospect, I know my God. I know those were false conclusions. As I know I am complete and whole in my creator’s eyes, and that in truth that my extreme sensitivity is my attribute, my way of reaching others.

What happened next, was interesting, in my opinion, and entirely gut-wrenchingly painful.

Upon reading what I consider “spiteful” words, I over-analyzed, and submerged myself in a puzzle of truisms and falsehoods, mainly in an attempt to see who I was.

Was I indeed ego-centered? Was I indeed essentially lying for 300 posts and presenting a false self? Maybe… I pondered this.

Was I a fraud, having fooled my deepest self, innately a liar of sorts?

This was the first loop I went through.

Afterall, if this one or two human beings thought so, of course they must be RIGHT!

You see this is the mind of this Aspie woman; this is what it is like to be me. This is why I hate, and I rarely use that word, but hate being in the spotlight, because of course eventually someone will be mean, retaliate, or disclaim who I present myself to be.

And to some, who can’t understand this, they will take this as weakness and silliness, or maybe even an outcry for attention, but it is not. If I wanted attention I would have used my real name; I would have self-promoted… I have the brains and know-how to self-publisize and gain a wider audience. It is not hard. But that was not my intention, and anyone who reads my blog with open-mind and a open-heart will see that.

What amazed me most, and still does, through this processing, as I have clearly and openly stated who I am over and over for months upon months; I have essentially bled myself out to the world; I have been nothing but open and honest and filled with best intention, but like vultures, some people be, just waiting to strike at my slightest interpreted “failing,” “flaw,” or “unappealing action.”

And this has been my ache since childhood: the ache of knowing I am good. Knowing I am filled with good intention and love. Knowing I am sincere and only wanting to make the world better. Yet, continually being viewed by someone as flawed and wrong. or worse fraudulent and false.

And this seemingly seems to be egotistical. At least that is a good argument for those wanting and wishing to point blame. Why not? Here is a woman (girl) pointing out her flaws, sharing her woes and hurts, so of course she is doing this to receive support and love. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. As I have stated before, here and in my support group, I cannot feel compliments; I cannot feel pride. I just cannot. If even a hint of pride enters me, I pray. And maybe that is prideful to admit even that, but how can I share it if not through words?

I get excited by someone connecting with me, when someone see that I can write well, with someone recognizing the real me. But to me that is not ego-centered. To me that is being seen and appreciated. I can absorb that. But only for a fleeting moment. Only for a glimpse. And then I am back to wondering how I can do more to help.

Where in it is hard for me to take in kind words, I do feel insult to the hundredth degree. Because innately I want to be perfect, even though I know this isn’t humanly possible, perfect in the sense that I want to walk the path of Holy people. I don’t want to be seen as a Holy person, or have that title, I just want to be that way. I see no reason to live unless I am loving more than hurting, giving more than taking, and reaching out more than receiving. This is how I am wired. This is me. Again, I can’t help if this sounds ego-based. Maybe it is. But it doesn’t feel that way to me.

And so I looped more, thinking well psychologically one would analyze me with daddy-issues and having to prove my worth to feel worthy or replace some broken piece inside of me. But I know that is not it.

I know I am worthy. I really do.

Inside I know so strongly that I am filled with Christ-love, or whatever love one is comfortable calling my love. I see this in the friends I have. They are so lovely. So beautiful. I can’t help but see myself in them.

I know so well I have light inside of me, as I have felt love most, if not all of my life.

I was a sensitive, joy-filled child, endowed with love and a depth of knowledge beyond my years. I was so sweet and essentially happy, until I began to uncover the ways of this world.

And that is when I changed. That is when my eyes became sad and my heart burdened. It wasn’t my father. It isn’t a perfectionistic personality; it is my heart, though so huge it be.

I looped again, further in intensity, thinking I wasn’t meant to be this way; I wasn’t meant to be a giver; I wasn’t meant to help people. I wasn’t built for it. If I was built for it why would I take so much to heart? It must be I am flawed. It must be I am ego-centered.

And round and round I went.

I wanted to explain myself…. but would that be ego-based.
I wanted to let it go…. but would that be denying a part I am that is so typical of a person with Aspergers.
I wanted to get angry, to curse, to yell, to scream… but would that be losing control.
I wanted to copy and paste the unkind comment to this blog for analysis and help with interpretation…but indeed I knew the social customs did not deem that appropriate at all.
I wanted to cry out my horrible pain, as I shed tears for hours… but wouldn’t that just push me further into a light of seemingly wanting attention? Poor me, love me please. Tell me I’m special. Look at me.

But YUCK. I don’t want that. I despise that to some degree. No amount of reassurance or words will build my worth. Yet, for some odd reason, any amount of negative-energy pulls me down. Humbles me further.

And I think, in reflection, that I am still at the exact same level of sensitivity and vulnerability as when I began this blogging journey. I don’t think my skin is any thicker. I don’t think that is spiritually possible for me to grow thicker.

I processed so much about this ONE comment that I became immobile in action; and then I did what I needed to do to make the loops stop!

I changed.

Like I have done in the past, I adapted who I was to fit the eyes of a stranger I wanted to please. Knowing I didn’t really want to please them, that ultimately I wanted to make sure I’d taken out all that could be deemed “non-beneficial” out of me. I wanted to destroy my humanness. I wanted to purge not my frailties, but anything that might stand in the way of me misrepresenting myself.

I believe I am not longing for acceptance, I am still longing to be seen.

And then I began to think of all the spiritual readings I’ve done. All the rules of right and wrong. All that somewhat point to the same thing: Your enemy is a reflection of you.

And so I self-persectued more.

I told myself well then I am this person; I am this spiteful person.

Though I knew inside she wasn’t spiteful. I knew she was just seeing what she chose to see.

And I saw all of my past learnings. Logically I knew it all. I even knew cognitively what I was supposed to do, but I couldn’t.

I just kept thinking what if she is right? What if I have done all this for no other reason than ego. What a terrible, awful person I be.

And I twisted and turned, and did what I know to do. I took her (their) words and reformed me.

If I was ego-based then I needed to deplete ego more. It wasn’t enough that I prayed all day for humility, wasn’t enough that I exposed myself, wasn’t enough that I spent hours helping others, expecting nothing in return, (even writing this feels so wrong but I will to prove a point), but I had to crush all aspects of self that symbolized I wasn’t representing who I was.

So I deleted almost every single one of my photos on this blog. I took tons of images of myself in an attempt to understand what I looked like. But saw this could be seen as ego-based.

I then deleted the about me page… because “about me” seemed ego-based just in the name.

I deactivated my like page (which I will bring back, maybe) because I’d only started it to reach more people. I never used it to self-promote. Like I said, it would have been so easy to do. Here’s a cute photo and a cute quote from my blog, read it, share it, and bring me the higher numbers— so not who I am at the core! But I erased the like-page, just to be certain.

Then I deactivated Sam Craft, because she somehow seemed to be the ego-centered one, because me, this woman, this spirit, this one with another “legal” name other than my penname, isn’t Sam in completion. Sam is my spokesperson.

I did all these actions to stop the loops, to stop the replaying of the negative message in my head.

And then, I thought I HAD to stop blogging. How could I share about myself and not be ego-based? It was an impossible riddle to solve.

Then I convinced myself this was for the best: More time with family. More time to focus on me. More time to just enjoy life and live.

But really, who was I fooling?

I have to write. I have to. There just is no way around it. Spirit has opened something in me and I am filled with thoughts and images all day long. Whole posts recited to me as I awake.

There is nothing I want to do more than helping others: that is my joy that is my happiness that is how I live. And if admitting that seems ego-based, I cannot help this. I cannot help if I am human, and part of me is still with ego.

Yes, in blogging there is huge fear of exposure. Yes, there are enemies out there, but what better way of defeating fear and enemy than announcing to the world: Here is my enemy.

And then realizing I am the only enemy to my own self.

Yes, I ran from the bully. I ran and ran and ran with my tail between my legs. But more so I ran from my self.

Why?

Because I don’t know who I be in flesh. I don’t know my role, my place; I only know who I be inside my heart.

I am fragile in spirit. But I am a tower of strength within my truth and light.

So why am I posting again? The thoughts come… as I risk comments such as: The only reason you said you were stopping was for attention.

I am posting because I am not done risking. That is why. I am not done risking, because I know in risk I can at last face the demons in my mind that speak that I am not enough.

I am posting because I can at last face the enemy that has persecuted me throughout my life telling me I was wrong or false.

I am posting because I am choosing not to run anymore.

This is where I stand.

I write for those that see me for me. Who see beyond judgment and labeling. Who know the pain of rejection. Who have been afflicted time and time again. I write to give them strength too. I write to say I am still here. I am still loving you and seeing you and your inherent good and worth.

I will not judge you. And if I do, my judgment shall not last.

I write for those that see their self in me. Who see that we are one in our struggle, that we are not alone. I write because the fire to know you within my own self burns so high that I cannot lessen the flame unless I reach out to find you.

I don’t know why all of this happened like this. I don’t know why I have to feel so much pain. But I know something, I will continue to be humbled. I will continue to be exposed and hurt. But there will come a time when I love you so much that I cannot help to see my own beauty. There will come a time when I can finally stand my ground and stick my tongue out at the bully and know that is okay. That the bully doesn’t exist. And that standing my own ground is okay.

To just stand there and shout: You are wrong! I am filled with light, and if you cannot see that then that is the darkness in you.

To the person out there: Your opinion is not a reflection of me. Your opinion is in constant motion, ever-changing based on some composition of rights and wrongs instilled inside your head. And though I may have felt wronged, I release this energy, and I embrace you for all that you have taught me, whether it be through the illusion of spite or not, because you are my teacher; I have called upon you as you have called upon me. And whatever I choose to do with the lesson is my choice. Just as whatever you choose to do with your perception of me be your choice. I give you that freedom, not that you need the granting, only because I need the granting. I need the freedom to release you. For you are not my maker and equally not my breaker. I choose all to be my teacher. I choose however you choose to respond to be another lesson learned. Your words will no longer create me, transform me, or make me into someone I am not. They will only serve as fuel for my passion to love others. So feed me all that you want. But know I shall not run. I shall stand here and shout, if not for me, than for all the others who have been hurt by you.
~~
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I dream of getting to the point where I can say: Your opinion of me is none of my business.

At least I used to dream of that day. But I don’t think I’m built that way. I think I am meant to be continually chiseled and brought back to my knees. I think that is my deepest wish. I see no other way to be. I think I am meant to be hurt, until I am tired of being hurt. Until I can look at someone and know, with every inch of me, and with total acceptance, that their pain and fear is not a reflection of me, because I have released my pain and fear. I think that is my journey, to hurt and hurt, until I am beyond hurt. Until I see how beautiful this world really is beyond the limited scope of my perception.

And so I release myself today. And I embrace my son’s words, my son with Aspergers: “Why did you stop blogging, Mom? You are so close to completion? If you give up you are letting the bully win. There are a lot of people who want you to keep coming back here. The only reason the bullies talk is because they are the ones that have spite. The other people are completely content.”

And so I write. For you. For me. To calm the burning passion. And to be able to look at my glorious son, and say, you are right. You are so very right.

Blessings and Light and Love. And here is to a life filled with so many unexpected turns that I might as well just let go.

In much love,

“Sam”
P.S. I guess I found some answers
Always and forever a learner.

308: Weakness

| Aspergers Girls

Weakness

A leader who feeds off his own authority
A learner who believes his words are the right words
A man who takes his own life
A widow who gives up hope on living
A child who runs from the bullies
A dancer who cries at audition
A doctor who lies to a patient
A rapper who slanders his father
A joker who criticizes himself
A wife who stays with the abuser
A person who claims life is too hard
A candidate who cheats to win
A scientist who presents false data
A listener who thinks she knows better
A friend who gossips
A gambler who has a system of winning
A mother who leaves her children
A daughter who banishes her father
A prisoner who escapes
A judge who accepts a bribe
An athlete who gives up on the race
A sister who weeps openly in public
A brother who drinks to feel numb
A street walker who gives of her body
A cop who deals drugs
A classmate who hides in the corner
A neighbor who cheats on her spouse
A grocery clerk who steals from the bin
A principal who harbors resentment
A test-taker who pays for the answers
A waiter who keeps more than his share in tips
A gymnast who takes steroids
A jailer who bludgeons the captive
Of which of these would you call weak?
Of which of these would you judge?
And still more, of which of these would you fear?
Are they not each a part of you?
Are they each not a collection of your perception?
Of what you have been taught is right and wrong?
And what of the murderer, the destroyer, the dictator, the martyr, the insane?
Which of these is wrong? Which of these is evil? Which of these is not enough?
The one you find the least in favor, is this the one you hold inside of you most?
Do you fear the rapist, the reaper, or the tramp?
The gambler, the preacher, or the false-prophet?
Which one shall be punished? If not all?
Who are you to say? What is it that gives you the right to declare the weakest? The worst? The one deserving punishment?
Is it the child molester then? Who shall it be?
Which one pulls on you to no end and makes you squirm?
Who is it that you cannot and will not love?
Is it the one who reminds you of fear or of self?
The one you cannot understand or will not understand?
The one that caused so much suffering to the innocent?
How do you know who has caused the most suffering?
How do you recognize this evil?
Have you not looked into your own soul?
Have you not dived within to see your own incompletion,
though you be whole?
Where inside of you does this judge live?
And how much suffering does this judge give?
Are you not the one who bleeds suffering?
Are you not the one who is the sufferer?
When you have removed the judgment, when you have stopped to see another as someone to be categorized, fitted, and placed into one of your boxes, then you shall see.
That all of us our God’s children. None of us more or less worthy.
You will see you were never meant to be the judge.
You were never made to be the evaluator.
You were built to love and love alone.
When you see the angry dog, vicious with his teeth out, do you judge the dog?
Do you think that is a wrong dog, a bad dog, a demon dog?
When you see a storm coming, do you judge the storm?
Do you think that storm was raised the wrong way, a storm that should know better, a false storm?
When you see a tree that falls down and crashes a home, do you judge the tree?
Do you think that is a vicious tree, an unjust tree, a tree that needs to be taught a lesson?
When you see the sea do you curse the waves?
When you see the sun do you curse the rays?
When you see the rain clouds do you curse the coming water?
What is it that you see?
What is it that you need?
Do you think because human has a mind that he is above nature?
Do you think that because he is above nature he should be judged?
Do you think that nature is not bestowed with the same giving spirit as you?
Do you not see the nature is as worthy as you?
And if both are of equal worth, than how can one be given different standards?
How can you not respond to man like nature: With your heart, with open eyes, with bewilderment and awe, with amazing grace.
This man before you is no less or no more than the sunrise each dawn, no more or less than the space that holds your spinning world, and yet you think you are more or less than him.
This makes no logical sense, as you are him.
You are each of the same seed.
Each birthed in beauty and magnificence.
Look upon each other as children of the universe, not as enemies of this land.
Join and you will no longer suffer in your separation.
Bleed out your truth, this truth though weak it seems, is the cornerstone of your foundation.
Your greatest weakness is your disbelief in self,
In your disbelief in your grand magnificence.
There is no weakness beyond this false belief.
And even that is not a weakness but opportunity.
For I have given you nothing but opportunity, for opportunity is the fabric of my love, ever-reaching, ever-growing, ever-nurtured.
There is none loved above you and none below.
So go out now and look at the sunset before you.
The one that God blows to your doorstep.
Breath him in. Bring in his wisdom.
For whatever touches you is a gift from beyond.
A gift for you to open: a gift to judge not with thine eyes, but with the heart of God.

~ Samantha Craft, January 2013

Lori Sealy is a woman whose voice, spirit, and message truly touch me. She is on the spectrum (ASD). I find her music healing.

This is Christian based.

https://soundcloud.com/#lori-sealy/song-of-the-afflicted-mix1

To find out more about this artist, go here:
On iTunes at:

And on Google Play at:
https://play.google.com/store/music/album/Lori_Sealy_Begone_Unbelief?id=Bbz3o5yjbzz6v2d5grbmtdaogva&feature=nav_top_albums#?t=W251bGwsMSwxLDUsImFsYnVtLUJiejNvNXlqYnp6NnYyZDVncmJtdGRhb2d2YSJd

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lorisealy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This woman is my spirit-given sister; here is a post that I found helped me very much.

“Uncluttered…What are you doing here?”

302: The Black of Me

| Aspergers Girls

I was standing in front of a variety of buckets of paint. I dipped myself in paint after paint.
I was in search of answers.
Soon I was multi-colored and dripping in knowledge.
I dipped and dipped more and a brilliant rainbow blossomed.
I dipped and dipped, covering every inch of me, until the colors all merged.
Then, and only then, I was the color of black.
But it did not bother me, this guise, this dark, this black.
For I knew all the other colors were still there, still with me, and now in me.
But then the “experts” and “professionals” entered the room, where I stood dripping black. And they observed. Their clipboards and furrowed brows moving in an unwanted rhythm. The dance of them entering my mind and hurting my being.
And they looked and looked where I stood—noting this black shroud upon me.
And I knew then that they were blind, that they could not see all the colors.
They only saw black.
They were quick to form theories about this black. And they were quick to find words, and labels, and meaning.
They assumed since I was garbed in black that I liked black, and only black. They assumed what they saw was the truth.
They couldn’t see.
They couldn’t see that just as black was my companion, so was every other color. Colors they had never imagined.
I couldn’t explain the colors to them. I couldn’t go back and show them where I’d been. I didn’t know how.
I didn’t know the words.
I was blind to their words, as they were blind to my colors.
To them I needed black.
To them I was black.
To them this end product of black was their everything.
They didn’t know that black was merely the mixing of everywhere I’d searched and everything I’d questioned.
They didn’t know that black was not the end product. There were still more colors to find. Still more colors to be.
But when they looked, they saw black.
They gathered their boxes next.
They needed boxes like I needed colors.
I understood that we both craved things that the other did not see or comprehend.
But somehow I was supposed to accept and understand their boxes. Even though they do not attempt to see my colors.
This made me cry inside. This disconnection. And the black grew darker, thick and coated. A darkness that stopped the colors from seeping through. And stopped me from dipping and dripping. Stopped me from being.
And as I was black to them, I was placed in their box of black.
And from there, in the box, I watched them write the words of who I am.
I could not tell them how these words made me feel. I was too busy crying for the lost colors.
How I longed for them to see my colors. To see me in completion. How I longed for them to dip.
For then I knew they would see.
They would see what I see.
And through their dipping and dripping
They would soon discover
That their boxes never existed.